My Companion
by TheOnlyOne20001
Summary: The story of Diablo I and Diablo II from the point of view of Marius.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer:I dont own anything but the plot. The rest is owned by Blizzard****™.**

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Please review and tell me whether oro not you think i should continue. also i wuoldba happy to hear any ideas you have, and any discrepancies that you find between this and the 2 games.

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I can't say when it all began but it must have been a long time ago. Human memory is short, so none of us knew much. We guessed it must have been long ago since neither nether haven nor hells really have a beginning. 

To us it began years ago when the archbishop came. He was cloaked in the light of the Zakarum church. Some even said that he was a paladin once, but to me he was just another one of the zealots. He never seemed very strong, limping occasionally, as if an old would never healed. We heard of revolts against the church in the city of Kurast, but they were apparently pout down quickly.

He was a just archbishop, and ruled his fellow priests wisely. He got more troops to defend out poor village. We were farmers, though with time we grew, and could consider ourselves a village by some standards. It was them that the feeling of foreboding came over the monastery, and few venture there, except for the faithful ones. The bishop no longer walked among our houses, he stayed in the monastery and preached from there. He seemed completely unaffected by the darkness that seemed to linger over the monastery. It was another week before all stopped coming to the monastery, even though the archbishop preached. Several more weeks passed and then the demons came.

Most of us though that would be the scariest event we would face, but we were soon proved wrong. By day we farmed, and by night we huddled with out families in our houses hoping for just a bit of protection. The bishop could no longer be seen. After several days a tiny stream of heroes came. Some were warriors there to hone their skills, some were truly interested in helping us, but most were there just for the treasures hidden beneath the ruined monastery. It soon came to pass that the king came through our village, hearing of this curse.

The bishop almost immediately took his son "to look the monastery, and see the glory of the church of the Zakarum". According to him the monsters never came to the top of the monastery, so the king agreed, sending half the guard with him. The boy never returned, as never did the bishop. The king went mad shortly there after, and decided to dare the dank labyrinth himself, with the rest of his guards. And he never came.

Finally the villagers decided to do something. All of us who had some courage decided to gather and enter the labyrinth. Many of us came but few returned. I was one of the group that went down, and one of the few that returned. Wirt was there, though we tried to make him leave, he mingled with the crowd, and came anyway. I guess now that is was to revenge his parents. Griswold the blacksmith came, even though he was pleaded not to go. He was the villages' main source of income. He refused to staying, saying that he was the best fighter that we had. I came because I had once fought bandits that attacked the village so I had some experience in fighting.

We descended in to the labyrinth, and even gout to the second level be fore the carnage began. The bishop that showed us the way disappeared, so we were left to fight the raging demon on our own.

"The butcher" that was what he called it. It had a cleaver that had the hells curse of fire upon it.

We ran. We had no choice. Damn it… Ther was nothing I could do.

I got lucky, Griswold found me and the boy Wirt. He led us up to a staircase where we managed to get out of the horrible genocide. The horrors that I saw there I hope to never see ever again, and wouldn't wish them even on my worst enemy. When we came back to the village, we told our story to the village elder, Deckard Cain. Most of the people that survived entering the labyrinth stayed in Tristram. But some like me fled to other villages where the joined other outcasts.

I am Marius, and this is where MY story really begins.


	2. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I dont own anything but the plot. The rest is owned by Blizzard****.**

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Sorry for the long wait. I am not a writer, I write when the rare mood takes me. Even then I usually go fro poetry, but here is a next chapter.

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Now as I sit here, I can fondly remember the one other monastery that I had the misfortune to enter. At least the demons there stayed locked in their crypts and only preyed on the heroes that had the misfortune to descend to those dark twisting stairs. Having breathed in the light of day on that fateful haunted evening, I ran home. No wife waited there for me, no children leapt into my arms. They were all long gone. That night I could not sleep, the monsters returned. But this time they were not content to sit in the cellars of a church, but danced a merry jig around the sides of my house.

By day I saw the cathedral looming with gray-faced implacability casting a shadow over a land that had long been forsaken by any God that still cared to watch it, and by night the monsters danced their way through my memories of that horrible place.

The stream of heroes slowly grew. Few of them would bother a drunk sitting by the side of a house, though a few would listen to the horror of what awaited them in the dark. Finally one day after seeks of this horror, a man came through that did not scoff at my stories, but listened to my memories of what had passed. He was nearly a week in those damp dark caverns, but when he returned carrying the head of the beast Diablo, ha came to thank me for the guidance I had given him.

There was a shadow in this young man, which I at first assigned simply to fatigue and to the burden of darkness that he had witnessed in those dark halls. A few days later he left leaving nothing behind, but a rumpled bed and the rotting head of a demon. The next day I left as well. The rotting head on its tall pike overlooking the square, brought back memories of the rotting dead, that drink had finally after almost a month dulled.

I walked North I think, though direction was hardly relevant when demons pursued me pace by pace. Every night their faces laughed at me from my dreams and every day every tree offered them sanctuary. Few things caught my attention in those days, but I do remember passing under the great gray bastions of the Sisters citadel, through the western gate, and on to the wind swept moors.

I finally came to rest in one of the caravansaries that littered this road, as it meandered on and on into the far desert. Here outcasts and merchants, priest and mages, locals and foreigners all mixed, to make a fine place where a tired man could forget his worries after a day on the road, and a woman could always find some work. But my ease was long in coming. I avoided sleep for days on end, but when I slept the dreams returned. Of the demons slaughtering in the dark halls and the butcher waiting for them to stop long enough to start the slaughter himself.

Then after nearly a year of waiting a man walked in. he was non descript, and rather short. At least he looked short, being bent over as he was, dragging a useless sword at his side, and moving as though a ton of bricks weighed down his shoulders. He walked over to a table and sat, saying nothing, not even reacting to the barkeep that went over to him. He reminded me much of myself, he seemed to have the same darkness around him, as I had back in those days at Tristam.

But his darkness was far more pressing then mine. For his demons it seemed were much more real than mine. As he moved his sword to ease it his hands trembled from the great effort he was exerting. His demons it seemed were not content to be only his dreams, but wanted to be ours as well. As the man moved backward from the table, his sword fell, and the glow illuminated his face. This was the young man that I had seen in my village but a year back.

In the few moments it took me to recognize this young man, more changes were coming over him. It seemed that the magical power he controlled was coming out of him. It was as if a green haze was hanging over him, and in this haze I saw the demons from my dreams. But these were real. They climbed from the shadows, from the cracks in the wall even from the fire. The smallest impling created from what seemed pure flame scampered from beam to beam engulfing them in flame. Bigger skeletons summoned from what seemed pure energy raised swords and began fighting, and even some strange slug like creature moved to wreak havoc.

Its was now that I started to pay some attention to the others in the room. Some fought and died, others tried to run, but most just stood there in stupefied amazement as the demons destroyed them. In a few minutes is was all over. Only 2 men were still alive: the wanderer, and me. It was at this point that he finally seemed to gain control of his magic. The skeletons dissolved, and the rest of the demonic menagerie slivered back into whatever hole they had crawled out of.

Then he left not making a single sound, his sword forgotten on the ground. Why did I follow after him? I don't know, Tyrael. Why do the lives of men happen as they do? Why did I survive on that horrible day, down in that monastery? I don't know. All I know is when he beckoned I walked, and so it goes.


End file.
